


The Zombie Diaries

by Redlance



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 02:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redlance/pseuds/Redlance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even in death, they are destined to meet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rotting Hill

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer** : Warehouse 13, the world and the characters that inhabit it do not belong to me in any way, though sometimes I lie awake at night wishing that they did and what I'd do with them if they did. And then I write those thoughts down.
> 
>  **A/N** : This all started back when I was writing what turned into "Death, Or Something Like It" and [Threeofeight](http://threeofeight.tumblr.com) was helping me come up with names. And by helping I mean she gave me a whole list of amazing ones for me to chose from. Then after I was done, she insisted I write fics for all the titles, and since we just had AU Week over on tumblr, I figured what better time to write them? So, here you'll find a collection of the ones I've written so far. Warning; massive amounts of random crack!fic ahead. ;)

* * *

     It wasn't exactly the kind of book store she would have frequented before, having never been all that interested in books about travelling. Though she may have supposed she might have found the more historical ones entertaining at the very least. Still, there's something that draws her to it now. The faded blue façade of the building, colour licked away by sunlight and paint peeled away by wind and restless fingers in places, still held some echoing promise of a time long passed. A promise of friendliness and warmth, of cosy familiarity, should you choose to return a few more times. There is a sign propped up behind a small, jagged piece of glass that somehow still clings to the frame despite that fact that all other remnants of the window lay scattered on the pavement below. Her feet are bare and the only sound the glass makes as she walks across the fragments is their dull grinding against the concrete. There are a few less shards glittering against grey stone once she has crossed them and they sink into the purplish underside of her soles. Some embed themselves instantly, others will take a while to work their way in.   
     The is no glass in the door, having most likely been flung open during an early bout of looting and has remained that way since. So she walks through entirely unhindered, save for the battered metal garbage can that has rolled into her path. She edges around it slowly, absently, shuffling through the shallow sea of books that now cover the once waxed and polished hardwood floor and wades further into the store.  
     It is in chaos, like the rest of the world, and the sight is one that would have made her ache once upon a time, so she is lucky in a way that she cannot know. She cannot ache anymore. She cannot feel anything at all, cannot speak, cannot breathe.   
     But she remembers.   
     In the back of her mind, a mind that no longer functions as it once did and to the naked eye might not function at all, there are things that have been store away. Disorganized and fragmented, but there nevertheless, and though the ability to access them consciously had fled alongside her last breath, they surface occasionally. As a battered hand catches the side of brick wall and is dragged across it, the texture brings forth a memory of a young girl she thinks might have been her sister sitting beside her on the top of one no higher than her waist now, and there is laughter in her mind. And her lips might quirk, echoing a familiar gesture of the past.   
     Her foot, bent at an awkward and impossible angle, might slip against a patch of ice and there is a flash of an ice-skating rink as her other foot comes down and, just for a second, she sends herself sliding forward. Quite on purpose, without knowing why.   
     There are ghosts of life all about Myka, though she does not see them for what they are.   
     The interior of the store is dark though the broken window allows in as much sunlight as possible and Myka holds still for a few imaginary heartbeats as dull and lifeless eyes seem to scour her surroundings. Perhaps they do, but she does not see the same things that one who still breathes and fears and lives would. She does not know what she is looking for, does not know that she is really looking at all, but her eyes move about regardless. She shuffles forward once more, broken feet clumsy as they try to traverse the plains of literature scattered beneath them. She moves towards the nearest bookshelf without knowing why, only a niggling yet persistent notion that she had done this before pushing her forward. Instinct, maybe. Or habit. But a few of the things she has left to tie her to a world that no longer exists.   
     She lets out a grunt as she stumbles over a particularly thick text wearing a bold statement proclaiming “An Encyclopedia of Europe” on its front in gold lettering. Had she been of a mind to think, she might have picked it up, but she isn't and so she doesn't, and simply continues on.   
     When she reaches the shelf she lifts her good hand, the one unaffected by the tyre iron blows she does not remember, and trails darkened fingertips along the spines of the few books still sitting on it. There is a hollowness inside her chest and though her heart does not beat, something inside it thuds with familiarity. She has done this before, a thousand times perhaps, and if she were able to garner comfort from anything, it would blanket her now as it had done before. Warm her body; a body that no longer remembers what warmth feels like.   
     Without knowing why, Myka tugs a book free from the alphabetized line, but she doesn't recall what to do with it once it has been liberated, and so it falls to the ground with a dull thud. It catches the tips of her toes and lets out another grunt, because it occurs to her – in some slumbering, though still oddly sparking part of her brain – that it is the appropriate thing to do. But she does not look down at the foot that the book has landed on and her faded green eyes stare vacantly as a face is revealed in the space created by its descent.   
     Thin and angular, though the features are ones that were birthed and not those so often adopted in death, the face is elegant. Striking, even against its chalky pallor. The eyes had been deeper and darker once, a brown that could shift to an almost-black – the same shade as the woman's hair – if the mood should strike. Her hair curtains her face, catching the thick beam of sunlight streaming in as it breaks off against Myka's back and drifts over her shoulder.   
     There are plenty like her wandering the streets, Myka thinks or would if she could, she has seen them all with blind eyes and given little more than a courteous glance or a snap of teeth. The undead do not grab the attention of one another as a living, breathing, bleeding soul does.   
     But here in this bookshop, after seeing hundreds and thousands of ones just like her, Myka **sees** the woman before her. As though she is the first. The only.   
     There are no sparks, no hitched breaths, no quickening pulses, but it is a heart-stopping moment. Or, it would be.   
     Myka lets out a short string of unintelligible noises, low and snuffling, and they are answered. And then with her good arm, Myka reaches through the space she has created and sends blunted fingers clawing through the air. While it is not the frantic grabbing she might have made while attempting to get herself something to eat, it is no less desperate, and when her fingers finally make contact with the material of the other woman's jacket, Myka freezes. Her mouth, open and emitting a long and almost mournful wail, suddenly sags and the noise she is making ceases.   
     Two sets of eyes that are leaking their colours in favour of a milky, pale blue do not stray from the other for long uncountable minutes. Indeed, it is not until the sun is setting behind Myka that the woman she is touching moves and Myka begins to whine anew as contact is lost, but she is not being abandoned. And it takes a while, though not nearly as long as it seems, and they are facing one another once more. And Myka's whining stops. She whimpers once, then twice, until the woman moves close enough for her to touch once more.   
     It is a bleak and frigid world.   
     But there is still warmth to be found.


	2. 10 Things I Hate About Being Dead

* * *

     It was the little things that Helena missed. The smell of freshly brewed tea, the new-found novelty of memory-foam mattresses, the ability to hold and coordinate a screwdriver. She'd so loved the art of taking things apart to find out what made them tick. These days, the only things she wished to see the insides of were those who were unfortunate enough to be out roaming the streets, doubtless in search of food or water or perhaps something more sinister. One did not need a screwdriver in order to reveal the inner workings of the human anatomy, only fingers and teeth. Not that she paid much attention to those inner workings. Those pistons and cogs made from tendons and flesh, the things that enabled them to at least try and escape her. No, she was rather more preoccupied with fitting as much of the screaming, mewling deceased-human-to-be into her mouth as possible.   
     She missed her ability to focus on more than just her stomach.  
     She hated the monotony that plagued her days now. What she wouldn't give for a **change** , something more than the idle walk, stalk, eat that her life had become. That her death had become, rather. She missed doing the crosswords in the Sunday paper, playfully fighting with Myka in order to get to them first. She missed dark nights spent in warm embraces and intimate touches, the memory of which was no longer enough to burn her frigid skin.   
     There were many things in her life that Helena regretted. Most of which had been put to bed a long time ago, but there were other, more recent ones that caused an ache to linger even into death.   
     She hated that she'd been afraid. To return to the Warehouse, to Myka, to the new family that waited for her despite the things she'd done. She hated that it had taken so long for her and Myka to take that final step, the one that had sent them tumbling over a line that had been pulled so taught for so very long, neither was sure how it hadn't snapped before then. She'd never taken a second for granted after that, but Helena hated that there hadn't been more time. To enjoy life, before death had come to claim them all.   
     But still, when you got right down to it, death wasn't all bad. Not this version of it anyway. They were still all together, the Warehouse team, though admittedly there were parts of them that had gone missing over the years, and while they no longer hunted for artifacts, they still hunted together. She and Myka still returned to one another, outmanoeuvring any obstacles in their way. It didn't matter that those obstacles were largely people with guns or machetes or that the outmanoeuvring consisted mainly of devouring those people, it only mattered that they found one another at the end of the day.   
     It was the little things that Helena missed, because the big ones were still with her.


	3. How To Lose A Zombie Horde In Ten Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We take a little detour here and find our characters playing the role of humans once more.

* * *

     They never started out as hordes. One lone zombie ambled into a largely deserted street, trudging awkwardly on as if pulled across the cracked and broken concrete by some unseen force. Against all odds, it found the only other like it for miles, clumsily shoulder-checked it as it passed, and then there are two. It was like a strange and morbid game of hide-and-seek, where you search for those you cannot see and then enlist them to find others once you've discovered them.   
     Myka had seen it at work, the tagging. It wasn't the strangest thing she'd seen in this new world, not by far, but it was odd. Like watching animals in their natural habitat, exhibiting behaviour never before witnessed by human eyes. She'd tracked that first group for days, fascinated by the behaviour. Helena had accompanied her, Claudia too, and the inventor had even documented the behaviour in the ragged leather-bound notebook she'd salvaged from the remnants of a department store. Then again, Helena was taking notes on everything that this barren new world had to offer. Claudia had jokingly inquired, somewhat recently actually, as to whether Helena was using the smiley face system. The older woman had taken the bait before Myka could stop her and Helena had been rather rapidly brought up to speed on the rating system for sexual escapades. She'd found it amusing, Myka had been mortified, and Claudia had practically howled with laughter when H.G. had divulged her smiley face score for the previous night's intimate events.  
     But hordes didn't just happen. What seemed as though it might be a random gathering of similarly thinking, single-minded undead appeared to be, upon further extended inspection, not unlike some sort of symbiotic pack mentality. Each additional member seemed to be responding to a call unheard by the ears of the living and once they'd been seamlessly integrated into the pack, they moved as one. Claudia had made a Star Trek reference that H.G. did not understand, but was nevertheless intrigued by, and referred to the behaviour as 'hive mind syndrome'. Pete had stared at them for a long time once they'd returned from their three day long tracking expedition and declared that the world was doomed to increasingly irrational behaviour, now that T.V. was a no-go.  
     Today, Myka and Claudia were running for their lives, apparently determined to prove him right. But this hadn't been entirely their fault. Yes, they could have paid a little more attention and yes, Myka perhaps could have calculated the horde's movement a little better, but in her defence Claudia had been distracting her and Myka had used up about eighty percent of her concentration simply trying not to strangle the young woman. Always with the questions and why exactly did she need to know every single detail of Myka and H.G.'s relationship? Where did the insane levels of investment originate from? It had been as she was ruminating on those questions, and realising that the answers made it impossible for her to say mad at Claudia, that the first sounds of the approaching horde had reached them. And it would have been fine, really it would have, if it had been the same as all the other times they'd been caught off guard. Which, while few and far between, had been enough to prepare them a little.   
     Only this wasn't like those other times. And this horde was unlike any they'd encountered to date. They were relentless in their hunting. Where a regular horde might have been at least momentarily distracted by one of Claudia's hastily concocted Molotov cocktails, it appeared as though not even a flaming meteorite could have dissuaded this group from their chosen path. They'd been caught off guard and then tracked like wild animals, stopping them from returning to base camp lest they put the rest of the group in danger. The zombies didn't sleep, so the cover of night was no use to them, and without a handy river to wade through in order to mask their scent, they'd been forced to do their best parkour-enthusiast impressions to at least put some distance between them and their hunters.   
     It had been nine days. Nine days of running and sneaking and eating whatever edibles they could get their hands on, which wasn't a lot. Nine days of darting through unkempt streets and dancing around overturned cars and mailboxes. Dodging scragglers whom the horde hadn't yet picked up and travelling by rooftop whenever possible. Claudia had been forced to leave her laptop behind that first day and had spent the following three quietly mourning its loss. Myka's walkie had been likewise abandoned and all she'd managed to grab in the instant before the horde was upon them had been the leather satchel she carried with her. Inside, there had been half a bottle of water and a few of those trail mix bars Claudia had once claimed couldn't possibly contain anything other than birdseed and glue. They'd made them last as long as possible, but had been running on empty for the last two days after having found nothing at the seven-eleven they'd passed the previous afternoon. Claudia, scared but entirely unwilling to show just how much, hadn't gotten more than a handful of hours of sleep those first days. Only when they'd needed to huddle together for warmth and she'd lay her head on Myka's shoulder did she finally drift off, and eventually Myka simply insisted that they sleep like that regardless of the temperature outside of the slightly scorched blankets they'd liberated from the charred remains of a surplus store.   
     “I'm tired.” Claudia mumbled, wriggling closer to Myka beneath her cover. They lay side by side on the dusty floor of a sixth-floor apartment in a building that had definitely seen better days. Myka had wondered upon entering if all of the damage to it had been inflicted after the “zompocalypse”, as Pete liked to call it, or if had largely looked the same prior to the undead infestation. The carpet beneath them was threadbare and stained, Myka didn't even want to hazard a guess as to how those had come about, and the cigarette-yellowed paper was peeling from the walls. Every remaining item of furniture in the apartment had been smashed, the stove in the kitchen lay in pieces on the sidewalk outside and a cool draft drifted in through the broken window, but didn't quite reach them around the corner. Myka would have killed for a de-sprung sofa or a worn-out recliner. She smiled as Claudia rested her head on her shoulder.  
     “Then go to sleep.” The younger woman made a noise that was quintessentially 'teen' and rolled her eyes.  
     “I **can't** sleep.” She huffed, resting an arm over Myka's stomach and closing her eyes as she felt an arm wrap around her back in return. “I miss them.” Myka's brow knitted into a frown, a sudden wave of emotion surging toward some shore within her, threatening to dash her composure against the rocks.   
     “I know.” She whispered, trying hard to keep the tone of her voice even. She was supposed to be the strong one here, Claudia needed her.   
     “Do you think they know we're okay?” If there was any way at all that Myka could be sure that by simply willing something to be true it would become so, she would have found it so much easier to answer that question.   
     “I don't know, Claud.” The truth was, Myka didn't know what to think. Not one of them back at the Cost-Co could have any idea what had happened. There was a lot they could have assumed, from Myka and Claudia up and leaving to them being the newest members of Team Undead and honestly, worrying about her friends worrying about them was driving Myka crazy. The first day they could have written off; maybe they'd gotten sidetracked, time had slipped by unnoticed, and they'd wanted to wait until morning to head back. But after that Artie, Steve, Leena, H.G. and Pete would have been on high alert. They'd have **known** something had gone wrong, they just wouldn't know what. And every night, as Myka lay awake and waited for sleep to claim her, she put herself in their shoes and made herself sick to her stomach with anxiety. Artie would be masking his worry with grumpiness, barking orders at anyone who was within hearing range. Pete would be formulating plan after plan, examining various scenarios and then working out the best way in which he could save them, never once entertaining the idea that they were gone. Leena would be outwardly calm, but the delicate crease in her brow would belie her façade, much like Steve, and H.G. would be... well. Truth be told, that particular potential set of feelings was the one Myka enjoyed thinking about the least.   
     “You miss her?” Claudia mumbled against her shoulder and although it sounded like a question, Myka knew that it wasn't. That there never really was one when it came to H.G. She sighed and let her eyes flutter closed.  
     Since the destruction of the Warehouse's they'd all been kind of floating, sent adrift in a world that was cold and frightening. They'd had each other as an anchor though, something normal to cling to. H.G. had had nothing until they'd run across one another, and even then it had been a while until she'd really 'had' any of them at all. Until she'd had Myka. And she **did** have Myka.  
     “Only every other second.” She didn't need to see Claudia's face to know that the younger woman was smiling. She felt the redhead nudge her calf with the toe of her shoe and Myka tilted her head to look at her.  
     “You're so screwed.” Myka laughed at that, a more quiet and subdued version of her usual, and turned her head back so that she was staring at the ceiling. “But I guess we kind of both are right now.” Claudia added softly after a moment. Myka gave her shoulder a squeeze.  
     “They'll find us.” And somehow, just like that, Myka knew they would.

* * *

     She awoke to a sensation similar to that which laundry undoubtedly felt whilst being tossed about in a washing machine. Not that anyone had working washing machines anymore. There came the unpleasant feeling of falling as her unconscious faded into awareness and then all at once Myka felt as though she were being violently rocked from side to side. However, upon opening her eyes, she found that neither of them had moved more than a few inches during the night, which was a ways behind them if the dimly lit sun lighting the room was any indication.   
     “What the frak was that?” Claudia squeaked, sounding more awake than Myka could ever remember her sounding at this hour. They parted and Myka sat up, tossing her blanket off her body.  
     “Sounded like an aeroplane just fell out of the sky.” She got to her feet and headed towards what had once been a functioning kitchen. “Which I don't think we can rule out after what happened in Nebraska.” She turned the corner, Claudia hot on her heels, and walked to the razor-sharp remains of the window. Peering out, Myka could see a dark plume of smoke rising from a block of buildings to their left.   
     “Looks like something just went boom.” Claudia mused, lifting herself onto her tiptoes for a better view. “Big-badda-boom.” She amended with a grin, turning to look at Myka. When Myka only stared at her the Claudia sighed. “No offence, but I miss Pete.” Myka frowned.  
     “Kind of a lot taken.” Claudia shot her a smile, before turning her gaze back to the street beyond.  
     “What do you think happened?” Myka shrugged and folded her arms across her chest.   
     “Maybe one of the burners finally exploded.” She offered, referencing one of the small number of cars they'd seen gently smouldering during their journey. Claudia hummed aloud, not seeming swayed one way or another. “Guess we should get moving. Maybe the explosion will have distracted them enough for us to sneak away unnoticed.” The redhead brightened at the idea.  
     “You think we'll be able to circle around? Maybe head back to the warehouse?” The first time that Claudia had referred to the Cost-Co as that, Myka was sure she'd turned as white as a sheet. After a while though, she kind of got used to it, understood to an extent. Claudia hadn't had a place to call home for a long time before the Warehouse had come knocking, now with it gone it made sense that she'd want to cling to any remnant of it. Even if the building was entirely different and there wasn't near as many artifacts lining the shelves of this particular warehouse. Myka flashed her a smile that she hoped seemed encouraging.  
     “Yeah, maybe.” She'd learnt the hard way that promises in this world didn't work like they used to.   
     They moved back into the room in which they'd slept and set about rolling up their blankets. Myka emptied out her satchel and began repacking it, while Claudia shot her furtive glances from her spot crouched opposite where she was shoving her own blanket into the small backpack she'd brought with her.  
     “Every time?” She asked after a moment, straight-faced, though a smile was threatening at the corners of her mouth. Myka didn't even glance up at her.  
     “Yup.” She slid the flashlight into the space between the blanket and the canvas of the bag and dropped the dog-eared fold-out map of the city on top, then flipped the flap over and fastened the clasps. When she lifted her head, Claudia was staring at her, brow furrowed and lips pursed. “What?” The redhead opened her mouth with an audible smack.  
     “You're like really, super anal. Even in the apocalypse.” Myka rolled her eyes and stood, looping the strap of the bag over her head so that it rested across her body.  
     “And this is new information how?” Claudia opened her mouth to respond, but snapped it closed as the sound of footsteps reached them. Faint, but inside the building, and definitely moving towards their position. Myka slid her hand into the small opening at the side of her bag and pulled out the handgun she'd stowed away beneath the blanket, slightly disrupting the neat fold job she'd done. It wasn't loaded, hadn't been since their fifth day, but sometimes an unloaded gun was enough to scare off a twitchy unarmed looter or two, and from the sounds of it there was more than one person approaching their apartment. Myka could hear the sounds of doors opening and she frowned. The zombies couldn't open doors, though that didn't stop them beating their way in, so that meant people. “Claud, I want you to stay here, okay?” She edged towards the narrow hallway that the door to apartment six-twenty-six opened onto.  
     “And what are you going to do?” Claudia asked, her tone indicative of the mood Myka's words had ushered her into. She didn't appreciate being treated like the kid sister, not in these kinds of instances anyway. “Pistol whip them into a coma?” Myka gave a lop-sided grin over her shoulder.  
     “Only if the kick to the face doesn't pan out.” She moved off down the hallway, gun held with both hands and the barrel pointed down towards the ground. Claudia's eyes brightened and she all but danced after her.  
     “Oh, I love it when you do that. Let me watch.” They came to a stop just before the door and Myka held her breath as she listened. She could still hear them, coming closer now, mumbled voices calling out. Lifting one hand from her weapon, she raised it to slide the flimsy-looking chain from its latch and then quietly unlocked the door. Counting to three, she slowly began to edge the door open, trying to ignore the way her heart was pounding in her ears. They hadn't encountered too many looters – Pete liked to call them bandits, but Claudia had argued that it made them sound too 'video game cool' – but a sufficient amount to make them cautious. With the door open wide enough for Myka to sneak her head around, she counted to three a second time, listening for any change in the pacing of the footsteps. When no change came, she slowly edged her head around the side of the door.   
     There were two figures double teaming the hallway, weapons drawn and at the ready. They'd open the doors to the apartments, disappear inside for a few moments and then continue on. Myka squinted, watching them for a minute or so until Claudia nudged her elbow into Myka's ribs.  
     “Well?” She asked. Myka shifted her posture but didn't look back.   
     “It's not a roamer.” She commented, watching the pairs slow approach with narrowed eyes. There was something familiar...  
     “Looters?” Myka shook her head, a smile blossoming across her features as she finally realised who exactly she was looking at. Her heart leapt almost painfully inside her chest and she finally turned to Claudia, who took in her expression with a puzzled one of her own.  
     “No.” Myka bit her lip, her smile threatening to engulf her entire face. “It's the cavalry.”   
     “Claud!” The redhead's ears almost visibly perked up at the sound of her name being called, near frantically. “Myka, you in here?”  
     “Myka! Claudia!” It was a surprise that they didn't get jammed in the door frame, Three Stooges' style, such was their haste to leave the apartment. Claudia broke free first, sprinting into the hallway as though the hounds of Hell were nipping at her heels.  
     “Steve! H.G.!” The man with the closely cropped hair, kept that way thanks to a razor and H.G.'s wonderfully steady hands, looked up with startled wide eyes. Claudia ran to him, and he only just managed to lower the rifle he was toting in time to catch her as she barrelled into him. Myka approached at a slow jog, smiling and wrinkling her nose in sympathy for the downed man as Claudia covered his dirt-smudged face with kisses. “Jinksy,” kiss, “I have never,” kiss, “been so happy,” kiss, “to see your face.” He made a show of trying to avoid her display of affection by inclining his head out of reach but wound his arms around her smaller frame, albeit with a fiend grimace. Myka turned her attention away from them and towards the apartment that she'd seen H.G. vanish into moments before Claudia had darted into the hall. Her breath caught only a little painfully in her chest as her eyes found Helena's, dark and bright and shining in the dusty light sifting in from the window of the room at her back.   
     “Here you are.” Helena said, as though she'd been looking for a cat that had wandered out of view and been found shortly at the bottom of the garden a few feet away. Pete's AK-47 was swaying at her side, held firmly in one hand, and her clothes were far more dishevelled than Myka knew she preferred to wear them. Three angry red lines marred her right cheek, a blueish-purple bruise surrounding them like a dark halo and reaching up to boarder her eye. Her face was smudged, similar to Steve's, and her hair was only a little less perfect that usual. Myka felt warmth explode in her chest and a sudden weakness in her knees threaten to topple her. They'd been running for ten days, and it was as though all of the left over adrenaline was abruptly siphoned from her, leaving her with barely more then fumes to run on.  
     “Looks like.” She replied weakly, not knowing what else to say. Helena's eyes glistened and Myka was right in thinking that the woman would prefer not to have attention drawn to that fact, but the marks on her face was something the former Warehouse 13 agent couldn't ignore. She closed the distance between them, feeling her heart pound restlessly inside her chest, and lifted her hand to gently cup H.G.'s face. “You're hurt.” After a moment of what appeared to be nothing more than Helena's soaking in the contact, she lifted her hand to cover Myka's, eyes closing for a heartbeat or two.  
     “I assure you, I'm quite all right now.” And she gave Myka's hand a squeeze before easing it away from her face, but she did not relinquish her hold, simply threaded their fingers together where they hung between them. Something within Myka surged and she leaned forward, brushing their lips together. Helena sighed into the kiss and Myka felt the tension drain out of the other woman. She was right; Helena had been a wreck. But while the woman before her was an expert at taking things apart, Myka was pretty good at putting the pieces back together.   
     “Look, I know you've been separated for longer than like, an hour, and your hormones must be exploding at the mere sight of one another.” Claudia's amused voice cut through the moment and they parted with not a little reluctance. “But we kind of have a horde to escape?” Myka turned to find the pair of them now standing and ready to go. She gave a curt nod of her head and then they were off, retreating back along the hallway at a brisk pace. “How did you guys get around them anyway? Did the explosion distract them?” Steve's lips quirked at the question and he shot H.G. a sidelong glance.   
     “You could say that.” Claudia cocked an eyebrow at the exchange, but Myka's eyes were focused on the path ahead as they began descending the stairs.  
     “We've been trying to loose them for days.” She sighed, slipping her gun into the back of her pants and then lifting her hand to tug her fingers through her curls. What she wouldn't give for a shower. Beside her, hand still clasped in Myka's, H.G. let out a chuckle.  
     “One doesn't simply 'lose' a horde, darling.” She said, as though this was knowledge widely known by all and Myka was the dunce sitting at the bottom of Zombie Class. “Especially ones with appetites as voracious as your would-be predators.” Myka began to glare, but it was readily apparent that it didn't have a snowball's chance in Hell of surviving the look Helena bestowed upon her. Coy smile, scrunched up nose, glittering eyes; Claudia had hit the nail right on the head. “Rather driven little blighters.” Myka lifted H.G.'s hand to her lips and pressed a kiss against her knuckles.  
     “How did you guys **find** us?” Claudia asked, the spring having been almost fully returned to her step. Steve made a gesture with his free hand.  
     “We followed them following you.” He smiled, seeming to enjoy the implied simplicity of the plan and Claudia accepted it, just happy that they'd come to save the day.   
     “So what was it that got their attention?” Myka asked as they arrived at the main floor and headed towards the doors at the back of the building that would lead them out into the street. She felt H.G. shift her weight, almost skipping as she walked, and Myka raised an eyebrow at the older woman.   
     “I modified one of Agent Donovan's Tesla grenades.” A second eyebrow swiftly rose to join the first and Myka had to resist the urge to pull the inventor to a stop.   
     “Modified it to do what, exactly?” She asked, as Steve held the door open for them and they exited the apartment building.   
     “Mykes! Claud! Oh thank Batman, you guys are okay.” And suddenly H.G. and Steve were sidestepping away and Pete was rushing at them as though he were motorized. His arms were like vices around them, threatening to squeeze the air from their lungs, and he held on for a long few moments. Until Myka realised that he was wet. And that the side of her face felt sticky.   
     “Pete.” She mumbled, face squashed against his cheek. “Why are you wet?” She heard Claudia release a noise of disgust close by.  
     “Dude, what is that **smell**?” Things abruptly clicked into place and both women simultaneous began pushing the man away. He relinquished his hold reluctantly and they gaped at him with unabashed horror once they'd gained enough distance to actually look at him properly. Suddenly, Myka spun on her heel and shot a glare so hot towards Helena, it could have melted the sun.  
     “You **blew up** the horde?” Helena didn't seem abashed in the slightest by Myka's tone and, in fact, flashed a brilliant smile.  
     “It was rather marvellous.” She exclaimed, eyes sparkling with mischief. Claudia exploded into movement, yet somehow not managing to move more than a foot as she flung a hand in the direction of the slowly dissipating cloud of smoke.   
     “You got my Tesla grenade to do **that**?” A familiar foreboding began to rise within Myka, one that she had learned to pay attention to as the feeling was not unlike the calm before a storm. She just knew the second they were back at the Cost-Co, the two would-be mad scientists were going to disappear into a back room and sparks and smoke would soon follow. Steve edged over and nudged the redhead with his elbow. Carefully, so as not to get any of Pete's transposed guck on him.  
     “It was like the Fourth of July.” There was a beat of silence and then he chuckled. “Which is kind of funny if you think about it.”   
     “Are you telling me I'm covered in slimy zombie...” she trailed off, flustered, mouth moving without sound. “Bits?!” She eventually exploded, voice high-pitched. Pete screwed up his face and then let it relax, waving his arms out in an attempt to placate her.  
     “No, no, it's fine.” But the droplets of black, coagulated blood that leapt from him as he gestured combined with what Myka was ninety percent certain was the remnants of a finger sliding off his arm all served to worsen her mood. “It's not, I mean, we don't turn this way.” His eyes widened and he snapped his head in the direction of H.G. “I can't, right?” Helena shot him a smile and gave a quick and comforting nod of her head. “Right. So it's good.”  
     “I smell like **ass** , Pete.” The only person who dared laugh at Myka's obvious ire was the only one who could get away with it. Helena sauntered over to stand beside her once more, winding an arm through Myka's and ignoring the mucus-like spots of blackish-purple that now covered her clothes.   
     “Yet you still manage to look entirely too fetching for your own good.” Myka made a show of glaring at her, but even the zombies would have seen through it. Claudia wrapped her hands around Steve's wrist and tugged impatiently.  
     “Come on guys, let's go home.” She smiled. “Maybe Artie and Leena made cookies.” Despite herself, Myka smiled back, imagining Claudia digging into the pre-packaged snacks the second they were through the door.  
     Home. It might have been a drastic difference when compared to what Myka had grown up with, but it was a difference that did not hold an ounce of negativity. She was surrounded by people whose love she **felt** , who didn't look at her with eyes that silently wished she'd turned out different. Better. Home was something people made. And they'd made one, together.  
     So their white picket fence might be made of zombies and their family dog was an overgrown man-child currently covered in the remnants of the horde that had systematically stalked them for days. Regardless of that, Myka looked around at their little group, and felt lucky.  
     “Yeah.” She said, slipping her hand into the pocket of her pants and pulling Helena's arm tight against her body, feeling warmth seep in. “Let's go home.”


	4. 50 First Deaths

* * *

     There is death, and near-death, and then there are things that transcend both and linger on into eternity. There are feelings and thoughts that whip around each instance, giving it life and solidifying the memory so that you can learn not to step in front of another car, or cling to that of your first real brush with love. And there are different kinds of deaths altogether, different people with which there are different experiences to be had. Death is different for everyone, and is made different by each person it encounters.  
     With Helena, Myka's deaths are like none she's previously been victim to.   
     The first time she dies, she's standing at the door to her apartment. There's the scent of flavoured coffee still lingering on her breath as it leaves her mouth in visible puffs of warm air and it's probably too cold to have walked home, but Helena had offered and Myka hadn't wanted to say goodbye just yet anyway. They'd met a week earlier at the same coffee house that had just played host to their first date. The atmosphere had been cosy, the company entirely too comfortable for a first date. Helena was flirtatious and smooth, beautiful and charming, and everything that made Myka flustered and tongue-tied. And apparently that had only endeared her further to Helena if the kiss she offers Myka is anything to go by. Helena tastes faintly of peppermint tea and her cold hand is somehow warm against Myka's chilled cheek. And Myka has the sudden realisation that she doesn't think she'll **ever** want to say goodbye.  
     The second time she dies they're at Helena's place. There's an electric heater doing a fabulous job of warming the small but well utilized apartment and two half full wine glasses sit forgotten atop the coffee table laid before the couch on which they're reclining. Helena’s hair, dark as night and soft as a whisper, is splayed out across one of the sofa pillows as she lies with her back against the cushions of the couch. Her breathing comes in short ragged gasps and Myka can feel Helena's pulse flickering wildly beneath the skin of her neck as she kisses her way towards the underside of the woman's jaw. Their lips find one another amid their controlled chaos, their meeting feverish and fuelled by a consuming kind of passion that Myka isn't used to feeling. It's familiar, but so very different, and so her need shouldn't really surprise her. But her hand is working its way beneath the hem of Helena's shirt before she even realises it's moving and that first intimate press of skin against skin almost rips her from the world of the living, as she wrenches her mouth away to gasp for breath.   
     The third time Myka dies, she's lost in a sea of black and pressed beneath warm, silken skin. Her eyes remain open for as long as she can command the to do so, staring up into Helena's as though the secrets to all of life's impossibilities has just been revealed within them. They remain open until her breath hitches and Helena presses her forehead into the crook of Myka's neck, dark hair falling across her bare chest like ink over paper. Then her twin seas of endless night are gone and she's falling fast and hard as skilled hands dash her like roaring waves of an unimagined force against rocks and she's left griping cotton sheets as though they're the only thing left tying her to existence. And through the buzzing haze that will soon shift swiftly towards lethargy, she hears words being whispered against her skin. They're unclear at first, as they drift to her, but eventually their echo rings clear. And Myka dies for a fourth time.  
     The last time Myka dies, she's leaving her D.C. office. Car keys in hand and a small smile playing across her lips, she all but skips down the stairs at the front of the building. She'd be whistling, if that were something that she did. She passes a co-worker who gives her a wry smile and Myka rolls her eyes. They're not used to seeing her like this. Happy. Content. In love. She's not used to feeling it, but she knows it well enough to recognise it. Knows it well enough to embrace it without question when it's handed to her so willingly. And she'll be embracing it in an hour or so, when she's freshened up and arriving at Helena's place with take out. Of course, she doesn't make it there. Not that night. She barely makes it to the parking garage before there are hands clawing at her. And she doesn't understand. She doesn't know how she hadn't heard them, must have been so lost in her own thoughts, doesn't know how they're so strong despite the fact that they look frail enough that they might simply disintegrate if they step wrong. They don't, though. And no one answers her screams as the two grey-skinned, milky-eyed youths force her to the concrete and sink their teeth into her flesh.   
     The first time Myka feels anything at all, she's found her way home. Not to her apartment, but to that other, eternal place and she's staring at a woman with dark hair and dull eyes that had once sparkled like stars.


	5. There's Something About Zombies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this marks the point at which I **truly** lost all remnants of my sanity.

* * *

     Hello, and welcome. This evening, if you'll join me, we shall be witnessing something never before captured on camera. Something so rarely seen by human eyes, there is little to no record of it to be found anywhere in the world. Tonight we shall see the way the other half lives. Tonight, dear viewers, I present to you exclusive insight into the rituals of zombie courtship.  
     The stage is set; a small rural town in the badlands of South Dakota. Fenced off from the rest of the world, Univille is one of the newest additions to what has been affectionately dubbed as “The World Zoo”. Scattered throughout the globe, The World Zoo is comprised of similar towns and cities, each treated much the same as those that housed lions and tigers and other hunters of man in those before times. Only now, sky-high walls, electric fences and infra-red grids protect us from any potential escapees.   
     Inside the Univille Zoo, thousands of cameras have been installed, capturing every sleepless moment of the occupants' undead existence. The study, helmed by a James Macpherson, has provided an insight unlike any other into things the surface of which we had previously only begun to scratch: motivation, feeding, their inclination to congregate. But it has also unlocked mysteries that had been little more than theories, until now. Can they recall their past lives? Feel remnants of a life long over? Emotion? Do they long for company, for companionship? Can they love? In the small town of Univille, South Dakota, we find the answers to these questions.

* * *

     Dusk.   
     As the occupants of the compound begin shuffling out of their respective shelters, it is immediately obvious that something is amiss. The usually subdued members of House Twelve appear agitated and disturbed. Their limbs twitch more rapidly and their gait is quick and jerky. They gnash their teeth, attacking the air, tasting it in an attempt to determine the origin of their upset. Their behaviour riles the rest of the Zoo and soon enough, more and more are behaving in kind. They lumber towards the centre of town, ready for their feeding. One of the native Twelve, an ageing, balding man before the bite, twists his head to lie at an unnatural angle and his ragged lips pull back beneath his bedraggled goatee in a sign of dominance as a new face approaches slowly from behind. None of those of House Twelve appear to recognise the newcomer, despite her having exited the same house as them, and they turn towards the stooped form of a woman to enact a similar display. New additions to the Zoo are irregular, and are welcomed as such. Cowed, the woman utters a pitiful groan in response, before shuffling away from the excited group. She disappears between the shadows of two dilapidated buildings, but not before she has caught the eye of a member of House Thirteen.

* * *

     It is early morning. The inmates have dispersed after feeding, the majority drifting off in the general direction of their houses. They mill about, unconcerned, as the stars dance in the sky overhead.   
     Our cameras catch a familiar face, scraped and bloodied, yet still holding a remnant of her former beauty. Her pale form, ethereal and bedraggled, moves awkwardly across the street, weighted and unbalanced by the battered leg of a cow that she drags behind her. As she drifts from the rest of her Wake, the younger red-haired female watches her leave with curious, dull eyes.  
     Within each Wake there is a certain sense of family unity, a way in which they interact that harkens back to their lives before. In their particular Wake, the young redhead serves a role that is perhaps closest to that of 'little sister', with our wandering heroine playing the older. There are also two younger males, the brothers, and an older, wiry-faced man; the patriarch of their little group.   
     Our chosen Roamer, Myka, slips into the shadows that had previously swallowed the newcomer. The area is dark, the light of the moon unable to penetrate past the façades of the buildings, but it does not hinder her lumbering movements. They are creatures of the night, their colourless eyes having adapted to it during the change, and in the wild their preferred hunting conditions is beneath the cover of darkness. They thrive shrouded in that which so many of us fear. Coincidence, or nefarious design? We might never know.  
     She sniffs the air, dull eyes showing an echo of intrigue as she allows her senses to search for the stranger. She opens her mouth wide, unnaturally so, in a display of aggravation that also serves as a kind of oral location. She tastes the breeze, searching. Her head snaps to the side in a rare show of speed and then she is moving once more, a thinning trail of blood seeping from the cow limb that she drags behind her in a way similar to how a small child might drag a well-loved teddy bear.   
     She turns a corner and sways to a stop before a building that had functioned as a coffee shop once upon a time. There are no smiling patrons present now, none that happily chat over steaming mugs as they converse over small round tables while sat in oversized leather chairs. Through the windows we see nothing but shards of broken furniture and the ghosts of a past time that we perhaps all took for granted.   
     Myka blinks her cloudy, dead eyes and tastes the air again. Something has caught her attention and she shan't be easily removed from its path. They are notorious stalkers, never giving up until faced with something that even their long decrepit minds can understand is impassable.   
     She shuffles towards the doorway, its barrier having been removed by some means or another, and lets out a low groan. It rumbles through the small interior of the building, reverberating off of empty walls and alerting any ex-persons inside to her presence. It is not a friendly dissonance, nor is it one that bares the vocal markings of a challenge, it is merely a warning. “I am here,” she says, “I am here.” And when no answering sound urges her in or away, she ambles over the threshold and into the confines of the derelict shop.   
     As the cameras go green we are better able to see the interior and its occupants. Myka wanders in, her gait appearing absent, but there is purpose in the way she holds her head. She angles it down, allowing her eyes to scour her surroundings, but even with her intentness, we see the stranger before she does.   
     Her eyes glint against the eerie green of our night vision camera and for an instant it is as though we are staring at a person, alive and breathing yet standing still as stone against the far wall. However, we know that it cannot be, know all to well how Myka would react to such a trespasser.   
     Myka releases another groan, this one long and higher than the last; she knows she is not alone. Can smell the other presence. Her feet take her a few more clumsy steps forward and our stranger edges away, awkwardly turning her body so that she faces the corner of the room. There has been no definitive answer as to **why** they sometimes react this way, though many theories abound, but it is believed to be some kind of masking instinct. A camouflage. An attempt to blend into their surroundings and thus be overlooked by one who might cause them harm. It is strange to witness the creatures with which almost all of us have had brushes with near death fear anything at all, though perhaps it is appropriate that man's greatest fear also fears itself.   
     Myka's roaming eyes stall in their movements and hang lazily fixed on the stranger's corner. Her hollow growl signals uncertainty and intrigue, and beneath that an assurance that there iss no aggression behind her persistence. She drags her feet forward across the broken-tiled floor, the fingers of her free hand twitching spasmodically as she nears the corner. For a moment she sways, teetering back and forth as if unsure as to whether or not she should proceed. The body before her is cold and unmoving, making it difficult to see, and so she relies upon her remaining senses to ensure that the stranger is still there. Myka huffs and grinds her teeth, bobbing her head as though agitated. She lets out a low, almost mournful wailing sound, and finally our stranger – Helena – begins to turn.   
     Long dark hair, lanky and thinning in spots, frames a face that might once have been beautiful. In death, or this unusual near-death that we've come to know, she too is ethereal. Pale and nightmarish, with sunken cheeks and eyes as black as coal. Her left zygomatic bone is visible, the flesh having being torn or chewed away, and a crack runs along its surface. The surrounding skin is flaking and crusted with blood, the flow having long since stopped. The hole at her neck suggests a bullet wound, upon later inspection no exit wound was found and so it is assumed that her would-be killer's ammunition round remains inside. An eternal token of a near miss. There is evidence of how recent the trauma was inflicted at the entry point; light glistens off blood that still oozes and trickles in thick lumps that disappear beneath the yellowing, blood-spattered shirt she wears. Her eyes are glassy, but utterly focused on the woman before her. Myka's head is tilted in a grotesque caricature of an entity that is half-woman, half-bird, and for a few unheard and unfelt heartbeats, they stare at one another.   
     The heavy, wet 'thunk' of the cow leg hitting the floor shatters the silence in a way that would have startled any living person, but neither move save for the idle sway of Myka's arm as the limb is released from her grasp. She groans again, low in her throat, and shuffles back a single step and then to the side. She is not retreating. She is offering.  
     Never before has such an act been witnessed. As we know, and as many of us have had the misfortune of experiencing second-hand, these creatures are not prone to sharing their kills. Their aggression during feeding time has been extensively well documented, many of you might recall Professor Romero who sacrificed himself in order to better his own research, and they are known to be ruthless in protecting their downed prey. Attacks upon their own kind are not uncommon during feeding time.   
     And so, dear viewers, allow me to present to you the very first documented instance of sharing among zombie-kind. Morbidly awe-inspiring, almost magical.   
     Helena sniffs and emits a short, shallow grunt. She moves only her upper body at first, gently swaying from side to side as she opens her mouth wide to taste the air. Finally, we see her move, cautiously and as carefully as her awkward limbs will allow. She exhibits the same distinct dragging of her feet as the rest of her kind, as though she lacks the strength to lift them clean from the ground, but there is something undeniably different about Helena. About both of them. What you are witnessing is not behaviour typical of their undead brethren, it is something we had never expected to witness at all.   
     It is a courtship, of a kind, one that we are all able to understand to a degree. One that bears a resemblance to our own rituals. Seeking out a mate who has caught our attention, bonding over a shared meal; these are things not terribly different from our own 'dating' experiences.   
     Helena lumbers forward with slow and uncoordinated steps, she is unbalanced and she holds her posture unevenly, but there is something about her pale face that screams determination through her uncertainty. A moan slips from Myka's lips, calling to Helena, and the sound seems to urge her forward. And Helena's movements might be slow but soon enough they are standing close to one another, still once more.  
     To describe anything about these creatures as 'tender' seems entirely absurd, and yet there is something about the way in which they gaze at one another that challenges that; vacant eyes that suddenly no longer seem empty, fingers twitching at their sides as though they ache to reach out and touch the other, the way Helena's jaw moves as if she wishes to say something. But the power of speech has been long absent.  
     Myka is the one to reach out, Helena still seeming too fearful. A keening whimper tears free from her parched lips, the sound dragged across the cracked and jagged contours of her throat, and her iridescent eyes are wide as she lifts her arm. Her intentions are good, but her memory is corroded, and she no longer knows why she feels the need to reach out at all. Cannot quite extend her fingers to brush mottled flesh. She huffs and gnashes her teeth in a display of frustration and, startled, Helena begins to retreat. However, she stills when Myka releases another whimper and remains that way even as her space as slowly invaded. Myka approaches, steps stuttering, and does not stop until their bodies are touching. Flush against one another’s.   
     At the contact, Helena becomes immediately submissive, emitting a mewling whine and dropping her head. It comes to rest against Myka's shoulder and the elder zombie's chest rises and then falls as though she is taking breath after deep, calming breath. Soft grunts leave Helena as she rocks her forehead across the length of Myka's shoulder bone, continuing on for a minute or so until Myka, motions precise, bends and sinks her teeth into the exposed skin of Helena's neck. Helena's movements cease and she holds completely still. Seconds tick by. Then without warning, Myka releases her, but remains close enough to inspect the wound she has inflicted. It is deep enough that it would have scarred had the tissue been living, but instead it will weep for a few days, blood eventually refusing to continue its trickling. Myka lets out a single grunt and then straightens. Helena lifts her head. Once more, they stare at one another. Then, ever so slowly, Myka's posture shifts and she dips her head until their foreheads are pressed together. Her mouth opens, though no sound leaves her this time, and Helena's teeth click painfully as she snaps once, then twice, in some show of acceptance.   
     Eventually, they move, though they never stray too far from one another. They fall to their knees on opposite sides of the cow leg and Myka blinks eerily intense eyes at the woman before her until Helena bends and begins to eat.

* * *

     Dawn.  
     As the newly birthed morning rays begin their ascent over the horizon and bathe the dusty ground of The Univille Zoo in their golden glow, our inmates once more collect themselves into their respective Wakes and slowly amble towards their houses. They do not enjoy the daytime, the most prevalent theory for that being a violent aversion to sunlight, and so they spend those hours indoors. They do not sleep, have no need for the Sandman's gift, and are merely seen to wait out the hours until night falls once more.  
     Myka and Helena are among the last to return to their houses. Their feet drag at a similar pace as they shuffle along side by side. They pass the balding man from House Twelve and Myka bares her teeth in a dominant show of aggression. At first it appears as though he might challenge, but the notion is put to bed the instant she snaps at him, angry and protective. He turns away, as cowed as he had made Helena earlier that day.  
     As they arrive at House Thirteen the redhead with the curious eyes, Claudia, is found stalled at the door. She watches them approach, mouth open and twisted in an unnatural fashion. Her low groan is caution and unsure, but the answering one she receives from Myka is terse and final, and not one that Claudia seems to wish to argue with.  
     They disappear into the shadows of their house together, one after the other, and we are left to wonder exactly how this new addition shall fit into the family dynamic.   
     Zombies. Unfeeling abominations that wear the faces of loved ones long departed from this world? Perhaps. But I am no longer certain that all of these fierce creatures are the same. We have been taught not to judge our human neighbours in such a way, even members of the animal kingdom. Why have we come to the conclusion that the inmates of The World Zoo are an exception to that rule? Why do we believe that they are void of all remnants of human emotion?   
     No one can be certain what exactly the behaviour between Myka and Helena means. There are no known cases to compare it to. The events of this recording are as unusual as those who have enacted them. In all my years in the field, never have I witnessed anything even remotely close to their interaction. It has been assumed, indeed even claimed as fact, that zombies feel neither pain nor remorse. Tonight I would pose just one question to you; what of love?


End file.
